Recipe For Disaster
by inadaze22
Summary: It all started with two words.
1. The Idiot's Guide To Dying

**Title:** Recipe For Disaster  
**Gift for:** **pokeystar**  
**Pairing:** Harry/Pansy with a side pairing of Draco/Hermione  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings:** some language  
**Word Count:** 1800  
**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of JK Rowling. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.  
**A/N:** First, I would like to say thanks to **pokeystar** for giving me this prompt, even if it did drive me a tad be insane…more than usual. Thanks to **floorcoaster** for betaing this for me, two times. You rock! Thanks to **kate0404** for cracking the whip and reminding me - even when I didn't want to remember - that I had to get this done. And thanks to **thebigdisaster** for being my head cheerleader!

* * *

**Chapter One: The Idiot's Guide To Dying**

_Thursday_

It all started with two words.

_"I suppose."_

The silence in Harry's office was deafening, save for the sharp gasp he'd suddenly taken. She what? Harry choked on the mouthful of water he'd been preparing to swallow.

What?

He immediately dropped the cup.

_She what?_

Excess water spewed from his mouth as he sputtered, gasping for air. Harry pathetically grabbed the corner of his desk, causing Pansy Parkinson, who was standing in front of him, to take an uneasy step backwards. Harry looked at the witch with watering eyes, burning lungs, and weakening knees. Was her look of disgust—or was that curiosity?—going to be the last thing he saw?

"You can stop choking anytime you want, Potter."

No, actually he couldn't.

She had the nerve to sigh. "You shouldn't ask questions unless you're prepared for the answers. You shouldn't be intimidated by me, either."

Intimidation? What was she talking about? Intimidation had nothing to do with it. He was choking out of _panic._ Harry's lungs burned as he tried to inhale, but all it did was make everything worse. Oh gods, this was it. His luck had finally run out, and he was going to die. Again. But this time, it wasn't going to be a hero's death. It was going to be one of those deaths featured on a countdown show or in a book, probably titled The Idiot's Guide to Dying.

But to be fair to his soon-to-be tarnished legacy, he'd _actually_ planned this out, and Pansy was the one who had ruined everything. She wasn't supposed to say yes to his invitation. She was supposed to look at him for a moment, lift a sculpted eyebrow, tilt her head back, and laugh as if he'd told the most hilarious joke. Because that was just the kind of witch she was. Hermione was dreaming if she thought that they—

Wait.

That was it.

A dream. This was all just a dream … or, wait, a nightmare! Sure, it was missing the general randomness, but that didn't mean anything. All he needed to do was wake up. So he punched himself in the leg as hard as he could and concluded that today was the worst day of his life.

"Sonuva—!" Harry bent over at his waist, coughing violently and clutching his leg.

Now he was in pain, not-dreaming, _and_ choking.

Perfect.

"If you're going to _die_, Potter," Pansy calmly drawled, "I suggest you do it in that corner over there and not at my feet. That would look too suspicious."

He would've scowled, but he was too busy coughing.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," she huffed and reached into her handbag, hopefully for her wand, but he wasn't going to bet any money on that. "Didn't you pay attention in Charms?!" She paused. "Don't answer that."

As if he could.

"_Anapneo!_"

The coughing didn't stop, but the choking certainly did. Harry gasped feverishly for air for the next few moments while Pansy waited, tapping her foot on the hardwood floor. Was that even necessary? He frowned.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

The noise was driving him insane. It was as if she was rhythmically tapping her foot in an attempt to create background noise for the silence. Wonderful. He'd had enough. "Stop … tapping," Harry rasped out.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

"Why?" Pansy snootily asked.

He coughed a bit more. "It's annoying … as hell."

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

"And?"

"I'm going … to … _Incendio_ … your shoes."

_Tap. Tap. T—_

When Harry was able to not only speak clearly, but look at her without tears obscuring his vision, he suddenly wished that he was still choking to death. Merlin, he was going to have to take _her_ to dinner? Talk to her? Look at her? Okay, looking at her wasn't the issue. Pansy was—he briefly studied her appearance. Harry couldn't lie and say that he hadn't, at the very least, _looked_ at her. She was pretty, beautiful even, but she was also off limits.

It was funny. Harry had never paid much attention to her; there had never been any reason to. They worked on the same floor and saw one another all the time, but their interactions were limited to stiff greetings in passing. However, he had _heard_ a lot about her, through the grapevine, of course. No one ever had anything good to say about her.

That wasn't too surprising.

She still acted like the same Pansy he'd known at Hogwarts: haughty, cold, rigid, and impervious to having her feelings hurt. But at the same time, she seemed different. It was strange. Pansy had been so brazen in school, but now, Harry had the impression that she was trying hard to blend in. Harry inwardly snorted at the idea. Someone should've told her that there was no blending when you were the witch who tried to offer Harry Potter to Voldemort.

He took a deep breath. Damn. It was going to be a long night. And how exactly had he got himself into this mess, again?

Harry frowned.

_Hermione._

Oh, he was going to break down her wards, distract her husband, and _murder_ her for this.

It was Hermione who had reminded him that he was twenty-eight years old, attractive, successful, and not getting any younger. She also told him that the longer he waited to move on after Ginny's marriage to Dean Thomas, the more he looked like he was still pining after her—which was most certainly _not_ the case. And she was even the one who'd suggested that he ask out Pansy Parkinson because he had a tendency to date 'safe' witches, and Pansy was anything but.

Date outside of his comfort zone? Hermione had lost all her marbles the day she married the ferret—ahem, _Malfoy._

Harry smacked his forehead, again.

"Maybe I should recant my acceptance. You look like you're having some sort of hero mental breakdown."

"A what?" A hero mental breakdown? He wished. "No …." he mumbled, looking around his office only because he didn't dare look at her. Harry adjusted his glasses and ran his hand through his messy hair. "I'm fine."

"Right." She looked unconvinced, and he was trying to find the right words that would convince her of his sanity. However, when Pansy tapped her foot again, Harry abandoned that thought and glared at her with such ferocity that she didn't continue. "Look, I don't have all day, Potter. I'm sure that you have someone to save, and I have memos flying over my desk and angry people to deal with."

Harry would argue that Pansy Parkinson had the most thankless job in the Ministry. Others would say that the Janitorial staff had it worse, but at least they had a day where people appreciated them. She was the errand witch for every sub-department within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Whenever he saw her, Pansy was always disturbingly busy, always on her feet, and someone was always angry at her.

It was a wonder she hadn't hexed—no, _killed_—anyone.

"So, when?"

He blinked. "When what?"

She stared at him as if he were daft. "Did someone _Obliviate_ you while you were choking to death? Our date!"

Harry hoped no one had heard her outburst. The news would be in the gossip rags by the end of the work day, and no one would let him hear the end of it. He did not need that.

Pansy snapped her fingers to get his attention. "Earth to Potter, when would you like to have dinner?"

The sooner, the better. "Tomorrow?"

"Is that a question or a statement?"

"A little bit of both, actually."

Harry ran a hand through his hair again and noticed the slight smirk on Pansy's face. Was she mocking him? The accusation was forming on his lips when she coolly informed him, "I'm free tomorrow night." She was doing something with her hands, but stopped. "Don't you live in Ottery St. Catchpole?"

She wasn't supposed to know that. "Yes, but how did you—"

Pansy's cheeks coloured slightly, which shocked him into silence. "Granger mentioned that you'd moved there last year to get away from the media." She locked her hands behind her back. It looked like she was trying to relax, but it make her look incredibly stiff. "Don't worry about me telling anyone." Pansy's eyes scoured his messy desk before meeting his. "First, it's none my business. Second, why would anyone believe me? You may not treat me like everyone else does, but we're not friends. The only thing we have in common is Granger."

People hated her, and she talked about it as if she were discussing the chances of rain. Toneless. It didn't make sense, but Harry supposed it had something to do with her enormous pride. It still made him feel strangely uncomfortable. "Right, erm, I do live there. Less than a quarter of a mile outside of town."

"I rent a house on the same street as the bakery. I just moved in a few weeks ago, so I'm not familiar with the restaurants in the area yet, but—"

"No restaurant!" Harry blurted out. Pansy's eyes started to narrow in confusion, but he cleared his throat. "I, uhh." He very well couldn't tell her that he didn't want news of this date to get out without her hexing him into next Tuesday. "I'm going to, erm, make dinner … myself. At my house." The internal cringe persisted. It had to be some sort of record for—wait a second. Did he just—oh buggering hell. He'd just volunteered to cook! At his house, no less. What in the hell was he thinking?! Harry couldn't possibly prepare an entire dinner; he could barely make toast!

Wait, toast? He didn't own a toaster.

He didn't even own cooking … stuff!

If Pansy was secretly impressed, she never showed it. She did, however, stare at him critically for a few moments. "Cook, eh? This should be … interesting. I didn't know you could cook, Potter."

"I didn't know either," he muttered, averting his eyes.

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing … seven o'clock?"

"That's fine."

"I'll have change the Floo so that—"

"Oh, I haven't had my Floo connected. I'll just Apparate. What's your address?"

After scribbling it down on a piece of parchment and handing it to her, Harry thought that he saw the corners of her mouth start to turn upward when she pocketed it, but he wasn't sure. "Well, Potter, if there's nothing else you wanted, I suppose I'll see you tomorrow." She turned and left, closing the door behind her with an audible click.

Harry stared at his office door for a long time after Pansy left.

He was going to _kill_ Hermione.


	2. An Accident Waiting To Happen

**Title:** Recipe For Disaster  
**Gift for:** **pokeystar**  
**Pairing:** Harry/Pansy with a side pairing of Draco/Hermione  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings:** some language  
**Word Count:** 4423  
**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of JK Rowling. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.  
**A/N:** First, I would like to say thanks to **pokeystar** for giving me this prompt, even if it did drive me a tad be insane…more than usual. Thanks to **floorcoaster** for betaing this for me, two times. You rock! Thanks to **kate0404** for cracking the whip and reminding me - even when I didn't want to remember - that I had to get this done. And thanks to **thebigdisaster** for being my head cheerleader!

I should mention that this is a 3-part story :)

* * *

**Chapter Two: An Accident Waiting To Happen**

_Thursday evening_

Pansy looked at her reflection in the mirror and held the robes against her body. She tilted her head to the side, imagining herself in them. They would do just nicely. However, her excitement at the find went cold when she looked at the price tag.

While the robes were perfect, the price was not.

"Seventy-five Galleons? For dress robes?" she whispered in frustration.

Beautiful they may be, but inside her budget, they most certainly were not.

"Is this the point where I come in and say that those robes would look good on you?" Hermione asked from the chair next to the mirror. She lowered the book on motherhood that had been previously covering her face.

Why, exactly, had she brought Granger along? She was the worst person to shop with, especially now that she was pregnant. Pansy paused for a moment. Oh right, they were … somewhat friendly. Truth be told, Pansy liked her. She was bossy, nosy, and constantly tried to read her, but at least she cared enough to try. Granger was the closest thing to a friend that she had, and Pansy had asked her to come almost on instinct.

But that was her secret.

"You just missed that moment, Granger."

"Malfo—oh sod it," she shook her head and dog-eared the page that she'd be reading. "How can I expect you to stop calling me Granger when my own husband doesn't?" After dropping the book into her beaded bag, Hermione crossed her ankles and absently rested her hand on her baby bump that had grown just in the last few days.

"Some habits never die." Pansy shrugged.

Hermione snorted. "Now, about those robes …."

Pansy held them back to her body. "These?"

"Yes, those. Are you going to get them so we can _finally_ go to Florean's for some ice-cream to satisfy my insane and, not to mention, hormonal craving?" she asked with a hopeful smile.

Pansy looked at the dress one last time before she put it back on the rack. "No."

Her smile faded. "Wha—no! What was wrong with this one? It's perfect!"

"The price isn't," she frowned. Granger opened her mouth, but was cut off with a crisp, "Don't start."

Money was a forbidden topic. Discussions about it, and Draco and Hermione's attempt at giving it to her, had always led to brutal arguments where they would go weeks without speaking. She didn't need any charity, and the sooner they understood that, the better. But Granger was a fiercely stubborn witch. At that moment, her lips were pursed, and she looked ready to say something.

Pansy narrowed her eyes.

The staring contest was on.

However, to her utmost surprise, after only a minute Hermione looked away, pulled her book out, and went back to reading. Pansy didn't bother to inwardly rejoice in her victory. There was no time.

She had to go on the hunt again.

"What about the yellow one?" Hermione suggested, pointing at the robes on the rack behind her.

Pansy frowned at the dress robes in question. It probably would look nice on her, if it wasn't for the horrible colour. "Yellow makes me look like I died and forgot to lie down."

Hermione's laughter suddenly rang out in the mildly crowded store, and all eyes were on them. But that wasn't too much of a surprise. People had been watching them since they'd walked into Madam Malkin's over half an hour ago. When she calmed down, Hermione used her thumb to dab a tear from her eye. She smiled at Pansy, whose cheeks were flushed from chuckling at her own words. "How about pink robes? I remember you wore pink robes to the Yule Ball—"

"Because my mother made me!" she exclaimed. "I hate pink, but I hated that dress more. I looked like an over-aged fairy princess." Hermione started laughing again, but Pansy continued, still hot over the memory of the hideous dress. "It was a fluffy catastrophe, and because they were taking pictures, I had to pretend that I actually liked that horrid thing. The first thing I did when I returned to my dorm was burn it. Daphne helped."

"Well, what colours _do_ you look good in?" she asked once she finished laughing.

"Silver, black, green—"

Hermione cut her off, "Don't even think about wearing House colours."

Pansy frowned because she'd been considering it. "Why not?"

"We're not at Hogwarts anymore. Try … mixing it up a bit. You said you look nice in black, what about adding another colour to it. Like a red—"

"So I can look like a checker board?"

"—or white?"

"Oh, so I can upgrade to looking like a chess board?"

"Now you're just being difficult."

Pansy ignored her and went back to searching.

She was about to deem the shopping trip a failure when she saw it—the perfect dress robes. And it wasn't long before Pansy was walking out of Madam Malkin's as a satisfied customer with a relieved and smirking Hermione at her side. The dress, which fit her like a well-made leather glove, was still outside her price range, but not horribly so.

She would manage. She always had.

Sunset was underway as they made the walk to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, and people were watching them. Hermione had always done a good job of ignoring the whispers, and Pansy had done an even better job pretending to ignore them. The media had always done a lot of speculating about Pansy's friendship with Hermione, and on some level, it deeply bothered her. Some said that she was just another lost cause that Hermione had taken interest in. Others said that her "tyrannical husband" had forced her to be friendly with Pansy, his secret lover. That was actually the closest they had gotten to the truth, minus the secret lover bit.

Merlin no. Pansy shuddered at the thought.

Draco _had_ reintroduced them, albeit reluctantly, but it had been Hermione's idea to bury the past. Pansy had agreed because—outside of Draco—she had lost all of her friends after the war. She was secretly in dire need of at least one.

Granger had already started her sundae when Pansy sat down with hers. They ate their sundaes, sat in silence, ignored the curious glances, and watched as dusk settled on the city. It was only then that the witch sitting opposite her decided to speak. "So where are you two having dinner?"

"Actually, Potter's cooking."

Hermione nearly choked on her ice-cream. "Harry's _cooking_?" she asked incredulously.

Pansy narrowed her eyes. "Yes … is that a problem?"

"No." She dipped her spoon back into her ice-cream and chuckled. "It's just that … Harry doesn't cook. I'm not exactly certain if he still can."

"I didn't think he did." The way he stammered about while making plans had told her that something was up. She figured that the reason Potter had suggested cooking was either because he didn't want to attract any attention or because he didn't want to be seen in public with her. It was hard to determine the truth, so she tried not to think about—

Pansy caught two witches sitting a couple of tables down staring at them and shot them such fierce glares that they both looked away immediately, feigning shame. She then turned back to Hermione, whose shoulders were shaking with mirth. Leaning back in her chair, she hotly asked, "What's so bloody funny, Granger?"

"They're always going to stare."

"That doesn't mean that I have to like it." Pansy fussed. "Besides, that's easy for you to say. They're not staring because of you, but because you're having ice cream with public enemy number one in the wizarding world."

Hermione helped herself to another spoonful of ice-cream. "I never pegged you as the type that cared about the opinions of others."

"I don't," she replied tightly.

"Could've fooled me." She smirked slightly, but her tone became serious quick. "It's okay to care, you know. No one likes to be hated."

Pansy really hated how accurate Hermione's observations were. Instead of voicing her annoyance or even the truth, she said nothing.

They sat in silence until Granger started prodding—again. "So, are you excited about the date?"

That was a rather personal question, and Pansy didn't know what to feel about it. She liked the dynamics of their somewhat-friendship, because while Hermione always asked probing questions, she never required that Pansy directly express her feelings. And this question made her distinctly uncomfortable. "Potter nearly choked to death after I said yes."

Hermione's eyes were wide. "Choked?"

"Yes, choked," she repeated, rolling her eyes at the memory. "It was … odd. I don't think he expected me to say yes, and he was drinking water … ergo choking."

The witch shook her head. "That blockhead."

"Look, it's fine. I'm not expecting anything special. It's just going to be another date."

"I don't remember you ever dating anyone before."

It wasn't that she hadn't been in a relationship, because Pansy had—plenty of them—but Granger didn't know that. She had never shared that particular part of her life with her. "I'm a private person."

"That's an understatement," she said with a smile and a shake of her bushy head. "It's been four years since Draco reintroduced us, and I know next to nothing about you."

Pansy waved her off flippantly. "It's not like we're best friends, Granger."

And all of a sudden, things were awkward.

Hermione took to staring in her ice-cream as if it was the key to finding out all the universe's secrets, and all she could do was stare at the sky. Seconds passed, then minutes. Silence. Yes, too awkward for Pansy's liking. She hated those moments where all she could do was wonder if she'd done or said something wrong, and this was one of them. So, she said the first thing that came to mind. "I, well, there are days when I'm completely jealous of you."

That did the trick. Hermione's eyes met hers, then narrowed slightly. "Jealous of me?"

Buggering hell. Now she had to continue, and there was no time to think of a decent lie. "You—you just seem to have it all together. You're married, you have a great career, and now you're having a baby. Your life is perfect."

Hermione laughed. "I can't complain. But Draco and I, our lives aren't as perfect as you may think. We have a mountain of obstacles in front of us, and they may always be there." Pansy could see a bit of sadness in her eyes as she spoke. "My parents are still wary of him, his parents barely tolerate my presence, and my friends don't exactly like him. It's frustrating, but we knew what we were getting into from the start. He," she rubbed her stomach affectionately, "may change things for us, he may bring everyone together, but he may not. We try not to worry about it."

"Don't you regret anything?" It was out of her mouth before she could snatch it back.

She smiled. "I—_we_ took a chance, and things may not be perfect, but it's paid off tenfold. We're happy. What's there to regret?"

Pansy said nothing.

"You know …" Granger adjusted in her chair. "It's not bad to take a chance on something—or someone."

It wasn't about her taking the chance; it was all about if that someone wanted to take a chance on her.

Pansy frowned.

Hermione misunderstood the frown and shook her frizzy head lightly. "You could be happy, Pansy."

"Like you?" she deadpanned.

"Like me." Hermione smiled, again.

"Well, I'm glad someone is." Pansy crinkled her nose.

No, she wasn't supposed to say that. Not aloud, at least.

She'd accepted that she wasn't a happy person, but she wasn't miserable either. If anything, she was just stuck. Yes, that was a good way to put it. She was stuck in her job and in her life, but she wasn't going to stress about it, or even feel bad for herself. And she sure as hell didn't want Granger to pity her, but it was too late. Pity practically radiated off her.

Pansy sighed to herself before looking across the table. "I didn't mean that. I'm not _un_happy."

"Then what are you?"

Merlin, the witch was so damn nosy! It flustered Pansy to no end, and she couldn't have that. "I'm—I'm just okay. There's nothing wrong with that."

"No, there isn't, but you have to want something more than just _okay_, don't you? There has to be a part of you that wants something—some_one_—at the very least. You have to have a heart's wish, something that you want more than anything."

"Heart's wish? What are we, ten again?" Pansy chided with a small smile.

Hermione rolled her eyes and ate another spoonful of ice-cream.

Pansy had no intention of divulging her inner-most feelings to Granger, almost-friend or not. That's how people got hurt. But, Hermione had a point. There was something she wanted more than anything, something she secretly wished for, and something she would kill for just to have a taste. Pansy struggled to put it into actual words, but she wanted—wanted to be wanted, appreciated, and taken seriously. She wanted to be considered, not as a last resort, but as an _actual_ choice. Her cheeks burned. "I'm a practical person, Granger."

"And _I'm_ not?"

Another good point. Bugger. "It's—it's not likely to happen."

"You never know. Harry could—"

"Oh, please. I _know_ that you," she pointed at Hermione, who decided at that moment to look surprised, "had something to do with him asking me out on this date. There's just no way Potter would do that without outside influence … from _you_. We've worked in the same department for six years, and we've barely had _two_ conversations."

Hermione opened her mouth, ready to argue, but snapped it shut and shrugged innocently. "I _might've_ suggested it."

"Might've?" she deadpanned.

She took a breath. "Okay, I did, but still … just give him a chance. I think that you two would be good for each other. " When she didn't look convinced, Hermione let out a sigh of exasperation. "Okay, let's make a deal. You stay one hour. If it doesn't work, I won't say anything else about your dating life. I'll leave you alone."

It was tempting. "One hour?"

"Yes, just one, _but_ you have to act as you would on any other date." She snapped her finger as if she had suddenly remembered something. "Oh! And don't even _think_ about cheating. No tricks of _any_ kind. You have to be on your best behaviour." She already had that maternal tone down to a science.

Play fair? Pansy quirked a brow. "And if I cheat, how will you know?"

"Oh, I'll know," she flashed a smirk that was identical to her husband's. "Believe me, _I'll know_ …."

**ooo**

"Pansy 'Pug-faced' Parkinson!" Ron dissolved into his sixteenth fit of laughter.

Harry groaned, removed his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

This was not what he'd had in mind when he'd black-listed Hermione, gone to Ron for help, and ignored the nagging voice in his head—which sounded oddly like Snape—that repeatedly called him an idiot. Maybe the voice had a point. Ron—the sound of him guffawing made Harry's grimace deepen—hadn't been much help. It was hard to believe that he would ever be much help, anyway. After all, he hadn't stopped laughing, snorting, and yelling 'Pansy "Pug-faced" Parkinson' since Harry had broken the news.

Ron slapped his knee and wiped his brow as if laughing like a hyena had tired him out. "I can't believe this!"

Harry started to say something, but ended up shrugging it off. At least he was saying something new.

"Do you remember those hideously frilly robes that she wore to the Yule Ball?"

"Erm, yeah," Harry lied.

The first real memory that he had of Pansy was when she had tried to hand him to Voldemort. It had taken Harry a long time—okay, years—and hearing her terrified testimony at her trial to finally let go of his anger.

"She was a walking candy floss disaster!"

Harry said nothing, thinking it would be a best not to remind Ron of his own dress robe debacle. He'd always had a problem with not being able to take what he dished out, and Harry never had like the shade of puce that Ron's face always turned when someone—_anyone_—brought up his Fourth Year fashion disaster.

"I'd be shocked if Pug-Face doesn't show up to your house wearing something just as hideous."

Harry rubbed his temples in an attempt to alleviate his growing headache. "Ron. Insulting her isn't helping the situation."

This was the time for Ron to step up, be his best friend, and give him some bloody advice—advice that didn't include him changing his name, covering his scar, and fleeing the country.

"Fine, fine." Ron sobered up, thought for a moment, and suggested with a shrug. "Just cancel on her."

Was that _really_ the best he had?

_Idiot._

Harry wished that the Snape-voice would just shut the hell up. He also wished that his best friend would come up with a better idea than 'just cancel on her' too, but it didn't look like either was going to happen. "What kind of sense does that make? _I'm,_" he patted his chest, "the one who asked her out."

"Yeah, and who's fault is that? Hermione's. I don't know why you even listened to her. She's gone bloody _mad_ ever since Malfoy decided to get her preggo."

Decided? He distinctly remembered Hermione saying that it was her idea to start trying to have children, but didn't correct Ron because it would only start an argument. Hermione had married evil incarnate as far as Ron was concerned, but he didn't dare tell her that to her face. Her temper was, as always, a force to be reckoned with.

"Never mind that." Harry checked his old wristwatch. "I have less than twenty-four hours before this dinner with Pansy Parkinson, and I need help."

Ron stared at him blankly. "You're serious about keeping this date?"

He shrugged. "It would be rude to—"

"Since when do you care about being rude to Pu—" Harry glared. "Parkinson," Ron recovered quickly and moved on, "of all people? Just because she and Hermione have gotten chummy over the years doesn't mean that you're obligated to eat with her. And what are the chances that Hermione even _knows_ about the date? You could just cancel and she would—"

"That's just it, Hermione _already_ knows," Harry whined.

"You don't know that."

"In case you've forgotten, Hermione knows everything!" Harry put his glasses back on. "When you sent the hoard of strippers to Malfoy's stag party because you thought Hermione would forgo the wedding and kill him, she knew and—"

Ron held his hand up to stop him mid-sentence. "Do _not_ remind me about the bloody canaries."

"Exactly! And if I back out now, what she'll do to me will be infinitely worse!"

"Worse?" Ron gulped, paling just a bit.

"Yes!"

"So what are you going to do, mate?"

Oh buggering hell. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose again before he exclaimed, "That's why I came to you in the first place!"

_Idiot._

"You could've come and talked to me before listening to Hermione, Harry! I know a few witches that will suit your taste, if you know what I mean." Harry nearly cringed when Ron did that little elbow nudge thing and that low laugh. He always did that when inferring about things that were too crude to say.

"Erm," he stammered awkwardly. "Well, I—"

There was a reason. A good one. But it was one he couldn't share with his best friend ….

Ron was allergic to romantic commitment. Really. And it didn't make sense, given the fact that he'd been raised in an amazing family. But sometimes, it didn't matter how someone was raised. Sometimes they ended up taking a different path from the rest of their family.

So, girlfriends had come, girlfriend had gone, and none of them had made it past a few months. In fact, Ron had been through so many girlfriends that by the time Harry learned the name of one, he had already broken up with her and moved on to another. There was even a waiting list to date the famous Quidditch player, and it was full of witches—and a few wizards—who were desperate to change him for the better.

Change Ron?

Not bloody likely.

Hermione had said it best the night that they'd broken up.

_"The easiest way to get rid of Ron is to ask him to stick around!"_

Harry could never ask Ron to find him a date, not when their priorities were so … different.

"I just, well, I thought—"

Ron waved his still-stammering best friend off. "Never mind that. Let's get on with this. We apparently don't have a lot of time." He wasn't kidding. "So, what kind of date is this?"

Green eyes narrowed in confusion. There were types? "Erm, well, I told her I would make her dinner."

Ron sounded as if he were having a heart attack. "You did, _what_?! You set the bar too high for yourself! She's going to want—no _expect_—all these _things_ from you. And you're going to have to do more and more until, _wham_!" Ron clapped his hands together to mimic the sound of thunder and disaster. "You're going to be discussing moving in together after a week—oh, or buying her a private island for your first month anniversary!"

"Okay, now you're just being dramatic."

"No! I'm not!" he argued adamantly. "Harry, you just committed the ultimate man-sin!"

There were sins? "It's just dinner!"

"No! It's never just dinner!"

"Ron—"

"Don't you see? It's _commitment_! You just dug your own grave, mate!"

"Unlike you, Ron, I'm not anti-commitment." Outside of his short relationship with Cho during his Fifth Year in Hogwarts, he'd dated a grand total of three witches. Ginny, to everyone's surprise, wasn't the first.

The funny thing about war was that it was completely unpredictable, and its aftermath, was even more so.

Harry had been so sure that he and Ginny would find each other once it was all over. They would date, marry, and have children together, but it just didn't happen that way. He'd spent the first three and a half months after the war gathering Death Eaters who had absconded after the final battle. And when it was time for them to return to the newly renovated Hogwarts, he and Ron had decided to stay and help rebuild the Ministry.

Ron frowned. "Am not."

"And now you're in denial. Lovely."

"It doesn't matter. _I_ have more experience in this area, Harry. You dated Luna for thirteen months, 'nuff said."

Ron loved to mention that at every opportunity, but the fact was that Luna was there at the point in his life when he just needed to be with someone who didn't expect the world from him, someone who made him feel normal and comfortable.

Luna had been just what he'd needed.

It was months after the war, months after Ginny had decided that she wasn't ready for anything serious until she finished Hogwarts, and months after he'd become the wizarding world's poster boy for change and reformation. Luna had been there, and stood by his side while he searched for—and later found—his place in the post-Voldemort world and, most importantly, his identity.

"You always bring that up, and I always tell you I don't regret it."

His best friend rolled his eyes then prodded, "And Ginny?"

"No, I don't regret dating her, either."

He and Ginny had started dating two years after he and Luna had parted ways. They had only lasted for two years. In all honestly, things were good between them, but Ginny was looking to settle down—and fast. The idea of settling down did appealed to him, but he wasn't ready for that at the age of twenty-three. And after months of fighting, Harry had finally decided that he wasn't going to let Ginny rush him down the aisle.

She was engaged to Dean Thomas nine months later … and married a year after.

"Yeah, right."

Harry rolled his eyes. No one ever believed him when he said that he wasn't angry, just like no one ever believed him when he said that he wasn't holding a torch for her, either. "Don't believe me, I really don't care."

Ron rolled his eyes and they sat in silence for just a few moments.

"Okay, I've been meaning to tell you something for a while now, Harry."

Uh-oh. This couldn't be good.

"Mate," he clapped his hand on his shoulder, "I know you're one for all that … commitment stuff, but what you need to do is to stop looking for Miss. Right, and start looking for Miss. Right Now."

"And how exactly is that going to help me with—?"

"Don't you get what I'm saying? Since you can't cancel this date with Pu—Parkinson, she could be your Miss. Right Now!"

Harry balked. "Ron!"

"Just hear me out! You're completely clueless when it comes to witches—" When Harry opened his mouth to argue, his best friend cut him off. "Well, it's true. You've dated three witches in ten years. And offering to cook on your first date with Pansy Parkinson, of all people, _shows_ your inexperience. But, since I'm your best friend, I'm going to help you out. And judging from all the wizards that Pansy has been with, she would be perfect to help you out, too."

He wasn't following. "Help me with …?"

"Experience!" Ron exclaimed. "Since you obviously can't even consider dating her seriously, she would be perfect to, I don't know, date as practice until someone better comes along. Then you'll have all the practice you need to know what you're doing with the next witch. It's perfectly logical."

Harry scrunched his nose. "That sounds pretty—"

"Brilliant? I know." Ron smiled, proud of himself.

He was going for crooked. "Uhh—"

"Just try. I'll teach you everything I know about women, oh, and I'll find one of mum's casserole recipes for you to make. They're killer." Ron slapped his shoulder again. "What's the worst that can happen?"

_Idiot._

_

* * *

_Anti-Commitment!Ron totally cracked me up. He's _such_ a guy in this story. As for Harry/Ginny, since this is a Harry/Pansy story, I wanted to make H/G's relationship end realistically and without any ridiculousness or cheating on anyone's part. It would've been easier to go with something more scandalous, but sometimes, the things we think will happen, the paths we think we're going to take, don't always work out. And sometimes, two people can have the same plan for what they want, but they don't have the same timeline. Life is full of surprises. It's not anyone's fault...it just happens. And I wanted to show that in this story. Lastly, Harry/Luna. Hee! It was something I could see happen during a crazy time in his life...ya know, Luna providing serenity for him. It's rather sweet. I think.

P.S. I know that Harry can cook for real. I know that the Dursleys made him do it throughout his childhood, though I'm sure he was fixing average foods. I downgraded his cooking skills in the interest of the story. Harry, in this story, is one of those people who hasn't set foot in a kitchen in so long that people-_Hermione_-has forgotten that he actually could cook...kinda how my friends forget that _I_ can cook. *innocent whistles*. I also tried to show that Harry hasn't cooked in 9+ years which would leave him rusty in the kitchen and anxious about cooking. Note, at the end, that Ron just assumes that he can make the casserole. I'm just sayin....


	3. Second Chance To Make A First Impression

**Title:** Recipe For Disaster  
**Gift for:** **pokeystar**  
**Pairing:** Harry/Pansy with a side pairing of Draco/Hermione  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings:** some language  
**Word Count:** 6333  
**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of JK Rowling. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.  
**A/N:** First, I would like to say thanks to **pokeystar** for giving me this prompt, even if it did drive me a tad be insane…more than usual. Thanks to **floorcoaster** for betaing this for me, two times. You rock! Thanks to **kate0404** for cracking the whip and reminding me - even when I didn't want to remember - that I had to get this done. And thanks to **thebigdisaster** for being my head cheerleader!

Last part :)

* * *

**Chapter Three: A Second Chance To Make A First Impression**

_Friday Night_

Harry was certain that this 'killer' casserole was a sign of the coming apocalypse—or at least a sign that tonight was going to be a sodding disaster. It didn't look or smell like anything Mrs. Weasley had made in the past, but he hoped that the taste would make up for its lack of aesthetic appeal.

He carefully poked it with a fork.

It wobbled a little, but didn't explode.

That was a surprise. And a relief.

He didn't feel like changing his shirt. Again.

Harry cast wary glances at the casserole, the salad that he'd tossed together, and the kitchen that he'd destroyed while making the Dinner of Doom. He signed and checked his watch. 6:50. Damn. Pansy was set to arrive in ten minutes and, son of a—his house was _far_ from clean. Luckily, it only took a few spells to remove the dust, dirt, and grime from his furniture and a few minutes of stuffing his sofa to near capacity with other assorted junk to really make his house look inviting.

Too bad he still couldn't get the smell of charred vegetables the air.

Harry was spelling his toilet clean when he heard someone say, "Your house smells like burning."

Startled, he jumped and spun around. Ron was standing in his doorway. "What are you _doing_ here? She'll be here in five minutes!" Harry pocketed his wand and shoved his best friend out of the doorway and into the sitting room. "You have to go!"

"Chill out, mate. I'll be gone soon. I just came to check in." He looked around. "Everything's hidden in the sofa?"

He grinned. "Of course."

Ron looked him up and down before he determined, "You look like a pouf."

Harry punched him in the shoulder. "Take that back!" Khakis and a black dress shirt were not pouf attire as far as he was concerned. His shirt wasn't even tucked!

Ron rubbed his shoulder. "You hit like Ginny."

"Ginny hits like a man."

"Good point." Harry could literally hear Ron's train of thought as he worked on another example. "Well, umm, you … you hit like Hermione."

"Guess you'd know all about that, huh?" he smugly retorted.

"She always goes for the head," Ron grumbled bitterly.

He laughed. "She's just trying to knock some sense into you."

"Bugger off." Ron glared and plopped down on his best mate's sofa, cringing when he heard something snap under him.

Harry flushed an abnormal shade of red. "What was that?"

"Uh-oh …." he sang.

"I don't like the sound of that."

Ron reached into the cushion and pulled out a wooden mixing spoon—then a Quidditch book that Hermione had given Harry for his birthday three years ago, then a quill, then an empty chocolate frog container, then several Galleons, then an ugly refrigerator magnet, then a—_what was that?_

"Ron! Stop before you mess everything back up."

He shrugged and started shoving everything back between the cushions of his sofa. "Best you don't sit on this sofa tonight, mate." Before Harry could say anything, Ron's eyes lit up, "Speaking of tonight, are you ready? Do you remember everything I taught you?"

"Err …." He'd considered everything Ron had said last night, but when it boiled down to it, Harry had no intention of—what had Ron said?—using Pansy for practice. That sounded wrong on all sorts of levels, and would likely get him hexed by _two_ angry witches. Merlin. He just wanted to get through tonight's date, prove to Hermione that she was a terrible matchmaker, and move on with his life.

Ron smacked the palm of his hand against his forehead. "Buggering hell, you're hopeless mate." He froze then looked at Harry with a glimmer of hope. "Just tell me that you had a customary shot of Firewhisky?"

"You know I don't drink that stuff. Makes me too honest."

Ron made a face. "Good point. You should avoid it." It looked as if he was at a loss, but only for a moment. "Just … just pay attention to her body language. You'll know when you can make your move. Trust me. This is going to be easy. It's _just_ Pansy Parkinson." He said as if she was nothing special. Harry inwardly rolled his eyes. No one was anything special to Ron, or so it seemed. "In no time, you're going to be ready for your dream witch. You'll thank me later."

For some strange reason, Harry wasn't so sure about that.

The doorbell rang.

Harry quickly shoved Ron into the Floo, blocked it, and gave his house a final once-over before opening the door. His eyes instantly widened upon seeing the witch on the other side of the door.

It was like seeing Mad-Eye Moody all over again. It didn't matter how many times he'd seen Moody, Harry had always stared at his eye. Always. And Hermione always smacked him in the back of his head and told him to mind his manners. Did he ever listen? No. It only made him stare more. Harry would pretend to be talking to someone or eating, but his eyes would always drift back to Moody's eye. He had to look. _Had to look!_

Harry was like a piece of metal drawn to a magnet.

And he was feeling eerily similar as he looked at Pansy.

Pansy …. Well, she looked … a lot different in something other than her work robes. Instead of her usually straight hair, it bounced in large curls around her face. She'd replaced the standard black robes with medium length blue robes with a black belt wrapped high around her waist. Harry immediately noticed that her eyes were actually blue—vibrant, clear, blue.

And they were right there, levelled with his, which wasn't right, since he knew Pansy was a few inches shorter than him. Harry's eyes wandered downward. She was standing on the centre of his welcome mat in heels—the ones that had the skinny heels that he had always been fascinated with. He had never dated women who could pull them off. And … his eyes started to slowly travel back up, but he didn't get far. The hem of her robes, which stopped a few inches above her knees, distracted him. She had _legs_.

Nice—oh Merlin no!

"Are you finished appraising me like some prize-winning horse, Potter?" Pansy finally drawled. Harry quickly made eye contact. She looked wary and put-off, but her voice was just as cool as ever. It hid anything she may have felt. "Have you determined my worth?"

"Your worth?" Harry repeated, confused. Then he shook his head. "I wasn't judging you. I was just a little surprised. You look quite—" He cleared his throat and muttered, "nice." Then he noticed the bottle of wine in her hand and quickly changed the subject. "Elf-wine?"

Pansy shrugged, though there were the remnants of a flattered smile on her face. "It's only proper."

Harry accepted the bottle, stepping aside and shutting the door behind her. "Are you hungry? I thought we could ha—"

"Your house … it smells like burning."

Harry blushed and blamed it on his old stove before he directed her to the dining room.

_Six minutes later_

Pansy's fork touched the tip of the mushy goo that Harry had identified as a 'casserole'. It comforted her slightly to see that her fork didn't melt.

She poked it again.

It wobbled.

The clock was ticking on the wall in his dining room. There were fifty-four minutes left of her allotted hour, and all she could hear was childhood etiquette teacher's voice telling her, _"No matter how unpleasant the food looks and/or tastes, a proper pure-blood always eats every bite."_

Pansy didn't know how or when, but she was going to find that witch and banish her to a deserted island for ingraining that into her head. But at the moment, there were more pressing matters at hand. First, there was Harry, who had yet to even touch his food. He was doing a rather poor job of discreetly watching her. And second, there was a plate with a distressingly chunky-looking 'casserole' in front of her that she had to eat out of politeness.

Merlin, she should've suggested opening the Elf-Wine. She needed a drink. Badly.

When Pansy poked the lump on her plate for the third time, it deflated.

Her lip quivered in fear, but she semi-bravely sectioned off a piece with her fork, closed her eyes, and daintily slid the fork into her mouth. First, Pansy decided that it would be best if tested the waters, just to make sure that it wasn't going to crack her teeth or sear off her tongue. It ended up being harmless.

Well, except for the taste.

Pansy's throat struggled to swallow, but finally the concoction made its way down, and the witch opened her eyes only to find wary green ones staring back. Oh, right, cue reaction. "_Mmmm …._"

"Are you being serious? It's good?"

She drank her entire glass of pumpkin juice before picking at the food with her fork. She wasn't sure if she had the strength to eat more for the sake of being proper. Pansy eyed it closer. "Should … should the meat be black like this? Is that what I smelt earlier?"

Harry leaned over and looked at what she was talking about. "There isn't any meat in the casserole. And no. My stove is old. I told you that."

"Oh." she paled. "Right. I thought that I saw something that resembled … niffler meat."

"I wouldn't feed you anything mentioned in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. If you don't want to eat it then—"

"No, it's fine. I'm just giving you a hard time, Potter. Yes," she coughed, "a hard time." Pansy checked the clock again. Only three minutes had passed. _Three._ The witch considered leaving, but knew that she would never live it down. So, she took another bite and tried hard to control her gag reflex when she bit into something hard and crunchy. "The little pieces of carrots aren't … well, they're actually pretty good."

Harry looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "There aren't carrots in there, either."

She paled further. "What _is_ in here? Broccoli and You-Know-Who?"

"You're not very funny," he said, but counteracted his words with a low chuckle. "Maybe I could try and make something else."

Make? Oh no, no. Pansy spared the clock another glance. Another minute down—fifty more to go. She could do this. She just needed a diversion. And—a-ha! The salad. It looked somewhat normal. "I'm not much of a casserole person, so I think I'll try the salad."

Her belief that Harry Potter couldn't _possibly_ screw up a salad was a tad bit premature.

Too bad she found that out _after_ the first bite.

She didn't want to know what exactly was in her mouth, but she chewed carefully and swallowed the entire mouthful before attempting to smile. "Did you put cauliflower in there?"

"I hate cauliflower." Harry sulked.

"Just checking, but at least I knew it wasn't in there. That's good, right? Is this a crouton?" Pansy held up her fork and examined its contents from all angles.

"That's it!" Harry declared as he grabbed the fork from her hand. He quickly gathered their plates while she just sat there, watching as justice was carried out on the casserole. The rubbish bin was the perfect new home for his food. "I'm ordering take-away. I should've done that before, but _no_, I promised to cook, and despite this disaster, I didn't want to go back on my word."

The sound of silverware and plates clanking was all she heard next, and if Harry realised he actually threw his decent china into the garbage, he didn't—

"I probably wouldn't be able to get the smell off of them anyway. Or the casserole."

To keep from laughing, Pansy distracted herself by touching the petal of the flower that served as their centrepiece. It was fake, and that wasn't a surprise. Harry Potter didn't seem like the type that would keep live flowers in his home. She looked at him … only to find that he was looking at her as if she'd sprouted antlers. Again. And for the first time, Pansy allowed herself to show the anxiety that she'd been feeling since she'd walked into his home. She had forty-four minutes left. "I—this is going terribly, isn't it?"

Harry snorted. "Understatement of the bloody decade. I'm actually surprised that you're still here."

Pansy almost snorted, but didn't. Instead, she did something that she was good at: making the best of a bad situation. The story of her life. "Maybe I wasn't as hungry as I thought. Maybe we could just open the Elf-wine, relax in your sitting room, and, I don't know, talk maybe." It wasn't the best idea in the world because she doubted that they had anything to talk about, but she had a bet to win.

He turned to her, looking quizzical. "Talk?"

"Don't forget the drinking part." Because Merlin, she needed one. A large one.

After giving it a moment's thought, Harry reluctantly agreed, and Pansy couldn't figure out why he was so bloody reluctant to have a drink with her. Or why he'd gone a bit pale. "It's just cheap Elf-wine, Potter. Relax." She stood up and breezed past him. "I'll just go in the kitchen and—"

Harry launched in front of her, yelling, "Don't go in there!" as he threw his body in front of hers. Pansy wasn't sure what startled her more: the panic in his voice or the fact that he'd used his entire _body_ to box her out, but she screamed all the same. Harry did manage to effectively stop her from walking into the kitchen, but he couldn't quite stop her from seeing it.

Pansy's mouth fell open.

His kitchen looked—Merlin, she couldn't breathe! It looked like someone had dropped a rotten food bomb on it. It was an absolute nightmare! And the smell! Gods, it was horrid! He must've had a spell up to contain the stench. Pansy's face was nearly white as she looked around.

There was a half-eaten sandwich on the table, which wasn't bad, but there was something next to it that reminded her of the evil casserole and it just made her stomach lurch. The countertops were covered with dishes, pots, pans, towels, silverware—everything known to man. And the stove. It looked like someone had thrown a pot of stew on it, turned on all the burners, and left it.

The horrible thing was that all Pansy could do was stand there, stare, and wonder what in the _hell_ Harry had put in her food … and how long she had to get to St. Mungo's before she dropped dead.

Damn.

She _at least_ wanted to finish the hour in her new outfit.

Pansy backed out of the doorway and looked at a bright red Harry, who immediately started babbling like a three-month-old baby that had just discovered it could make noise. "I, uhh, erm, well, I—I'm a messy cook?" he tried.

She didn't move or speak for exactly thirty-seven seconds. Then, she said the first thing that came to mind, "I'll … be in the sitting room … err … sitting." And then she walked—no, _ran_—into the other room and sat on the loveseat.

_Crrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrunch._

The witch paled in mortification. _What was that?_

The battle was on. Curiosity verses Common Sense. To reach in or not. To live or die. It was a close one, but common sense won out. Instead of reaching into the cushions, Pansy checked her watch and listened to Harry open and close cabinets for the next three minutes.

Would he hurry up with that wine already?

Pansy took a breath to calm herself down. The next thirty-seven minutes were going to get better … she hoped. And, really, it wasn't like a wizard to keep a clean kitchen, anyway. Right? She really couldn't judge him for that. Right? Right. She took a deep, cleansing breath. Oh sweet rationality. It always made calmed her down whenever she started to panic. The witch managed to pull herself together just enough to force the grimace from her face and cross her legs properly.

She had perfect timing because, seconds later, Harry came into the sitting room with the bottle of Elf-wine in one hand and two cups—not wine glasses, _cups_, in the other. It was completely undignified, but—

"I don't own proper wine glasses." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I know you're—"

"You know I'm what?" she quirked a brow. "I know you're not about to say what I think you're going to say, are you?" Pansy lowered her voice just a fraction and shook her head. "Wow, Potter, you really don't know the first thing about me, do you? My family was never rich like the Malfoys, nor were we poor like the Weasleys. We were right in the middle."

Well, they were until after they found out that her parents, who had died at the hands of Death Eaters a few days before the war ended, had donated their _entire_ savings to the wrong cause. And that act had cost Pansy everything. The Ministry had confiscated nearly everything left to pay for war reparations. Pansy couldn't lie and say that her life had been easy since. She'd started life after the war with very little money, no prospects, no family, one friend, and no job. And even nine years later, she still made just enough to pay all of her bills.

The witch looked at her date, and she wasn't surprised by the fact that he looked strangely uncomfortable.

"Something to say, Potter?"

He shook his head before putting down the cups and opening the wine.

Like a polite gentleman, he poured hers first.

Thank Merlin.

Pansy was sure that her parents, who had probably started rolling over in their grave the moment she had agreed to have dinner with Harry Potter, were ready to come out of their aforementioned graves when Pansy accepted the cup from him. The wine was cheap, but sweet, and he was pouring her another cup before he could finish his first.

This wasn't going to end well and there were thirty-five left.

_Thirty-four minutes later_

Surprisingly enough, a tipsy Pansy was a mildly talkative Pansy, but it contrasted nicely with his way of staying deathly silent to avoid doing or saying something completely idiotic.

Another surprising thing: she had told seven jokes.

_Seven._

Who knew Pansy Parkinson had a sense of humour? Granted, her jokes were somewhat stiff and not well executed, but it was shocking to see her show more human qualities without pomposity. She seemed more real now than she had in the six years that she'd worked in the department.

And he—well, he was intrigued.

There was obviously more to her than Harry had ever bothered to consider. And realising that made him feel … weird. There was an odd sort of tightening sensation in the pit of his stomach. And maybe it was the alcohol, but he wanted to know more about her. He wanted to have an actual conversation with her, just to see what she would say or reveal, if anything. However, when she looked at her watch, grinned, and declared that she needed to leave, Harry found himself a bit disappointed.

"But it's the weekend." It was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Pansy blinked, and he swore he saw something that looked like disbelief. "Very nice observation, Potter, but not all of us get to laze about on the weekend. I actually work from seven to two on Saturdays. It's the only time I have to get my actual work done without any interruptions. Plus, I get overtime pay, which will probably pay for this outfit," she looked down, "or maybe half of it."

"Oh," he ran a hand through his messy hair and muttered, "okay."

The witch paused, looked at him, and then up at the ceiling before declaring, "Damn meddling twit."

"You must be talking about Hermione."

"I am. She has this ridiculously absurd idea that you and I would be good for each other. And I only had to—" she paused, shaking her head. "Don't worry about it. Forget I ever said that."

Good for each other? What? Harry wasn't too sure about that. He was just intrigued. "I will … if you stay."

"Trying to blackmail me, Potter?"

"I only asked you to stay a little longer."

"Why?" she questioned sceptically.

"I'm hoping to figure that out." Harry replied.

Pansy frowned. "I'm going to regret this. I know it."

She was worrying about regretting this? Good. So was he. "No faith?" Harry taunted with a smirk.

"Faith is for idiots … and Gryffindors."

It was another joke. Harry could tell because there was a smirk on her face. And this time, his laugh was sincere. She smiled a bit, and that was nice, too. He'd never seen her smile. However, before he could say anything in response, Pansy sat back on the sofa. There was a soft noise that made both their cheeks colour slightly. Maybe he should clean out his sofa.

"I'll stay," Pansy finally said. "For reasons I do not know."

"Well, we could talk more," Harry suggested as he stood up from his seat on the other sofa. "I could make coffee."

"I don't drink coffee. Or tea, for the matter. Water, from a clean glass, will work just fine."

Harry ignored her sly remark and left, returning minutes later with water for her and coffee for himself. That time, Harry sat next to her. Or he tried. His arse was millimetres from connecting with the cushion of the sofa when she said, "I'm convinced that there's something living in your sofa."

"It's just stuff." He finished plopping down. _ Snap! Crackle! Pop!_

"Stuff, eh?"

He swore that she was stifling her chuckle, but he wasn't too certain because the moment he glared at her, Pansy averted her eyes and brought her cup to her lips. Harry blushed. "Yes."

"That's actually good to know." There was a pause where she actually shifted away from him. "I _might've_ broken something. I wasn't going to tell you, but since you don't care, I thought I should let you know." She crossed her legs, again. "Maybe—it's warm in here. Do you have a deck or something?"

"You'll have to go through the Kitchen of Doom to get there, but—"

"I'll close my eyes. And nose."

She did, using one hand to cover her eyes and the other to pinch her nose. It made for a ridiculous sight, but he led her through the kitchen and outside holding on to her elbow. Harry turned to shut the door behind them, and when he turned back, she was leaning on the railing, looking up at the sky and drinking her water. He joined her, and for what felt like hours, he looked up, too.

The sky was dotted with stars, but the clouds had made it nearly impossible to pick out constellations—not that he knew many to begin with. But there was something else that had caught his attention, and it seemed to catch Pansy's too. It was the treetops in the nearby forest. They seemed to be swaying, rustling in a light breeze that neither of them felt.

"My house doesn't have a deck. I wanted a place with one, but couldn't afford it. It's nice … like being outdoors at home." Her tone was wistful and oddly soft. Harry was afraid to speak at first because he was certain that he would do something to ruin it. But she sipped on her water and asked, "Don't you think so?"

"Erm, I've never been out here …."

"I guess when you have it, it's easier to not appreciate it. I know that one all too well."

"What are you talking about?"

"Material things."

"You know …." Harry knew his voice sounded odd. He knew he was about to blurt out something that he didn't want to say, but couldn't stop himself. "It—well, it wasn't fair what happened to you."

"Life is never fair." Pansy sipped on her water.

"You shouldn't have had to pay for your parents' choices." He drank a few sips of his coffee, but instead of falling silent, he just kept on going and going. And oddly enough, his curiosity about the witch standing next to him wasn't ebbing. In fact, it was getting stronger.

He wanted to know more.

"People pay for the sins of their parents all the time. You know that, Potter. Besides, I had other sins that I had to atone for."

He knew what she was referring to, but it felt silly to talk about something that had happened over nine years before. Nine years. That was nearly a decade ago. In a month it _would_ be a decade. Sure, what she'd done—or tried to do—was wrong, but it was over, done, and forgotten. No, that wasn't true. It may have been over and done, but it most certainly had not been forgotten. Pansy was still paying for that mistake. Everyone still shunned and judged her, but she had taken it all in stride.

And he felt ashamed because they'd fought the war to rid the world of one prejudice and replaced it with another. No, he hadn't actively participated in it, but he'd done something worse. He'd ignored it, and her—or maybe he'd been too busy to notice. It was a shame that it had taken him nearly ten years, a horrid dinner, half a bottle of Elf-wine, and seven bad jokes for him to get to this point in his thinking. And Harry just felt—

"You know," she interrupted his thoughts. "I don't need your pity. I don't want it."

"I don't pity you. I empathise. That's different."

"Oh." Pansy finished her glass of water. "Well, can we change the subject? I don't particularly enjoy it when people try to pry."

"Is that what I'm doing? Prying?" Harry took her glass and put it on a little table next to him. "Because last I checked, we were just having a conversation."

She looked at him with slightly narrowed eyes. "I should go." Her voice had gone back to normal.

"Why?" Pansy moved away from the railing without answering his question, but Harry caught her by the arm. For just a fraction of a moment, she looked startled. He didn't like that so he released her arm. "I thought we were talking."

"That was not a real conversation, Potter. That was awkward and nearly unpleasant. We're …." She trailed off, clasping her hands together. The only thing he could do was stare because he was having another Pansy-is-a-human-being moment, and it was still distressing. "We're just too different." She took a couple of backwards steps away from him. "We have nothing in common, except for the fact that we went to school together and, well, that incident. And I don't want to discuss that night because that's the one thing that _everyone_ talks about. And you know what, you may not care, and I have no idea why I'm telling you this, but I'm twenty-eight and I hate that I'm defined by something I did at—"

"I'm absolutely rubbish at cooking." Harry blurted out. And when the retreating witch froze, he continued, "I didn't even own cookware until this afternoon."

Pansy stared at him, eyes wide as saucers.

"I bought three sets of pans because I had no idea which ones I would need, and it turned out I had to borrow a casserole pan from Mrs. Weasley anyway. So, now I have all these pans, and I don't have the foggiest clue what they're for."

One corner of her mouth twitched.

Emboldened, Harry continued. "And now, I have to explain to Mrs. Weasley why her silver casserole pan is not only black, but impervious to magic."

Both corners of her mouth twitched that time.

"And instead of helping me cook, Ron spent the entire afternoon eating everything in sight and trying to give me pointers on how to seduce you, which was bloody awkward because I wouldn't trust his opinion on dating anyhow."

Pansy looked away so he wouldn't see her smile, but it was too late.

Harry was on a roll. "I mean, have you seen the witches he's dated? Outside of Hermione, they've all been … well, let's just say that I'm surprised that they can walk and chew gum without slamming into something."

And, with that, Pansy finally broke down and laughed.

Harry stopped and watched. Her laugh was strange and a bit garbled, but that wasn't what he really noticed. It was the way her shoulders shook and the relaxed look on her fact that had ultimately caught his attention. Suddenly, Harry was experiencing another Mad-Eye Moody moment, and he was incapable of noticing anything else.

When she calmed down moments later, she opened her eyes. They were glistening with tears and something that he identified as disbelief. "That actually felt pretty good. I haven't laughed like that in years."

"Why not?"

Pansy shrugged and unconsciously rejoined him at the railing. "Nothing to laugh about, I suppose." The town's clock tower started its hourly chime. It was nine o'clock. After the last one, she leaned over and said, "I actually knew you couldn't cook, even before Granger told me."

Harry paled. "You did? But why did you—" Say yes? Show up? Try the casserole and the salad?

"Isn't it obvious?"

Yes, it was. He shook his head in realisation. "Hermione."

She nodded. "I'd already agreed to come, but wasn't expecting much. Granger told me that if I stayed for an hour and still had a horrid time, she would stop bothering me about my dating life. So, yes, I came with a bit of an agenda, I came to prove a point, but … it's been two hours and I'm still here …" she trailed off and looked at her hands that were resting on the railing. "I still don't really know why, but here I am, taking a stupid chance …." Pansy froze, made a face, and then tried to diminish the value of her words. "It's not like I had any other prospects."

He wasn't sure what to think. They both had come with a plan; both had set out to quiet one meddling witch. Harry couldn't fault her for that, not when he'd done the same himself. But it _had_ been two hours … and neither of them had run out screaming from boredom or awkwardness. It wasn't what he'd planned or expected, but it had happened, and it _had_ to mean something. The fact that they'd managed to make the best of a horrible date had to mean something as well. Right?

It made Harry wonder about what could happen under different—and better—circumstances.

But wait—"No other prospects?" Harry avoided gossip magazines at all costs, but now he was confused. Pansy had no other prospects? From the impression that Ron had given … well, that just didn't seem to fit. "I'm sure you have loads of wizards—"

"Stop. I know what people say about me, Potter, but none of that is true. Those magazines, all they do is spew rubbish. I shouldn't have to tell _you_ that."

Harry blushed. Actually, she did have to tell him that, because he may not have cared, but he'd heard the rumours floating around in the Ministry. If none of that was true … then what was? And who was she, really? Because, now more than ever, Harry didn't know. Pansy wasn't a stone-faced wench with a horrible attitude; he'd seen her smile, laugh, and make jokes. Sure, she was tough as nails, but he got the impression that she had to be that way. It was part of who she was as a person. And she wasn't as experienced as Ron had let on because she was just as awkward as him. She stiffened every time his arm brushed against hers and she never knew what to do with her hands.

"Stop staring, Potter, it's rude … and disturbing."

And just like that, it was over.

Harry actually recoiled for a moment. "Sorry. I was thinking about something."

"Well, if you would like me to leave you to your thoughts—"

"You, actually," his words were halfway mumbled. "I was thinking about you." It sounded more romantic than the situation called for, but there was really nothing he could do about it. The words were out, and even that awkward post-statement pause had passed.

Pansy was ashen and frozen. "I, well, I'm—" she rubbed her hands together as if she were trying to warm them. "Why?"

That wasn't a hard question, but what could he say? He couldn't tell her that he was confused, interested, and even perplexed by her. He couldn't tell her that he had no idea who she was, or that he wanted to find out. He couldn't say too much of anything, so he didn't. Instead, he finished his now cold coffee, awkwardly shrugged, and took to looking at the still swaying treetops.

"It's getting late. I really should go."

"I can Apparate—"

"I'm actually going to walk."

He stood up straight. "Well, I can walk you home."

"That's not necessary. I don't live that far, and—" Her eyes suddenly narrowed. "And I'll hex you if your next sentence includes the words hooligans, protection, and dangerous. I can take care of myself, thank you very much."

He abandoned his previous thought. "I … just let me walk you home."

She reluctantly agreed.

_Ten minutes later_

Harry's hand accidentally brushed against hers exactly three times during the ten minute walk back to her house, and each time Pansy stiffened, but said nothing.

For a moment, he thought about taking her hand, just to see how she would react, but didn't. It probably would spoil what had been an oddly decent evening, despite the food, the noisy sofa, and the near-argument on the deck. Harry stole a look from the corner of his eyes. Pansy was just as stiff as ever as she walked in a near-perfect straight line with her eyes focused straight ahead and her hands balled up at her sides.

Pansy's hands never uncurled, not even when they finally stopped in front of her house.

"Well, here we are, and you didn't even have to flex your hero muscle."

He laughed, again, and it was still surprisingly sincere.

But soon enough, he realised just why he shouldn't have walked her home. Because now they were stuck in one of those awkward goodbyes where they both were waiting for the other to take initiative, but neither wanted to seem presumptuous. Pansy stared at the wand in her hand, and Harry rubbed the back of his neck nearly raw.

Finally, someone spoke up.

"So," Pansy began, "I think this is the point where I thank you for walking me home and say goodnight." She looked down at her shoes. "It's been … not bad." Her eyes met his. "Interesting, even. I'll have to tell Granger that—"

He kissed her.

It was irrational and impulsive and stupid and likely to get him turned into a magical creature, but he did it anyway. And … and she didn't turn him into a flobberworm. Or a Horklump. She _actually_ kissed him back. Harry had expected her kiss to be rigid, but instead it was surprisingly tender and a bit inexperienced. Harry brought his hand to her neck and was surprised when Pansy leaned into him. He could feel her pulse, and it comforted him to know that hers was racing … just like his.

But just when he decided that he liked kissing her, just when he decided that Ron was a sodding idiot for even trying to make him consider using her as practice, and just when he mentally took Hermione's name off of his black list, the kiss was over.

Pansy's cheeks had noticeably coloured.

He straightened his glasses. "We … we should do this again."

"No offence, Potter, but I'd rather not subject my stomach to any more of your cooking."

Harry shook his head. "No, I mean, we should go out. On a real date, in public, with edible food." When she cocked a brow, he shrugged and admitted bashfully, "I-I didn't do things right. I didn't take you seriously, I didn't think this would even be a decent date, I didn't—well it doesn't matter what else I didn't do because I'd like to, I don't know, try again. Give this a real chance."

Pansy looked uncertain, but oddly hopeful. "With me?"

He smiled and nodded. "Yes, with you."

She folded her arms across her chest. "People are going to talk, you know."

"People always talk, but not everything they say is fact." It was a lesson that he'd been forced to re-learn tonight, but Pansy didn't look convinced. "I-I think we should get to know each other better."

The witch stared at him hard for several moments before her eyes softened ever so slightly. "You're actually serious about this." And when he nodded, she made a face. "Well, that's most … unexpected."

"It is, isn't it?" Harry ran a hand through his hair. "So, what would you say if I asked you out to dinner tomorrow night?"

Pansy paused to think.

And it began, again, with two words.

"I suppose."

_**The End.**_

* * *

And there ya have it! Had a blast writing it because it gave me a much-needed break from Broken. I was sooooo burnt out on that story, but this kinda helped me get back on track :) Again, I _did_ know that Harry could cook. Hope you all enjoyed it!


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